The Pit’s True Teeth

  The chains snapped.

  The ground shuddered.

  Three beasts thundered through the broken gates —

  the Calydonian first, tusks jagged and blackened like shattered spears.

  The Erymanthian barreled after, a wall of meat and bone.

  And behind them, the Laestrygonian giant, each step pounding the earth like war drums.

  Homiros's voice cleaved the sky:

  "THE RULES ARE BROKEN! TAKE WHAT YOU CAN! SURVIVE OR BE FORGOTTEN!"

  Steel rained from the pit walls — swords, axes, broken shields.

  A storm of weapons.

  The survivors fractured like brittle stone.

  Some bolted, others froze, a few roared, slamming weapons against their bodies and charging death itself.

  Damaric grunted low, tightening his grip on his shield. His eyes narrowed at the beasts thundering toward them, no fear in them—only grim calculation.

  Hiro caught a falling sword by the hilt — rusted, half-eaten by old battles.

  But it was weight in his hand. And that would have to be enough.

  The Calydonian boar locked onto him —

  steam gushing from its snout, tusks gleaming like cursed ivory.

  It charged.

  Hiro stepped into the strike, swinging the sword with all his strength —

  the blade caught the boar's tusk, biting deep —

  A single thought flickered across his mind:

  "Oh, snap."

  —and snapped.

  The force flung Hiro backward — like a leaf caught in a storm.

  The Calydonian, enraged by the resistance, kept charging blindly. It slammed headfirst into the coliseum wall with a bone-jarring crack, dust and stone showering down in thick clouds.

  Hiro hit the wall hard, crashing through the stone and falling limp from the hole he'd carved. The breath punched from his lungs.

  The world rang — not with cheers, but with the roar of chaos.

  Dust. Blood. Screams.

  His head spun, ears whistling.

  Above the dust, Phinx screeched — a sharp, furious sound that cracked through the chaos, circling wildly above Hiro’s fallen form.

  He blinked, hard, forcing the haze away.

  There was a sudden warmth in his chest—a steady thrum, subtle but real.

  His vision slowly cleared, the ache in his limbs fading into a distant hum.

  He looked down at his hand.

  No fresh scars—only the broken sword, still clutched in his fingers,

  the other half embedded in the boar’s tusk, vibrating with each furious snort.

  The Calydonian thrashed, stunned by its own fury, reeling from the impact, but far from beaten.

  Around him, the arena burned with madness:

  Men running, men dying, men fighting back against the myth made flesh.

  Hiro staggered to his feet.

  High above, Homiros leaned forward from his stone throne, a grin twisting his mouth as he bellowed for all to hear:

  "THE LITTLE LAMB STILL STANDS! LET'S SEE IF HE CAN DANCE WITH DEATH!"

  The boar’s wild eyes found him — and Hiro met its gaze without blinking.

  He exhaled once — slow, steady.

  A crooked smile tugged at Hiro’s mouth.

  "Guess pork's back on the menu," he muttered, rolling his shoulders loose.

  Then he glanced around —

  searching.

  And there, through the dust and broken bodies, he saw it —

  half-buried under a crushed shield, slick with blood and dirt —

  A staff.

  Not just a weapon.

  A memory.

  The first weapon he had ever been taught to use.

  Not for killing —

  but for control.

  The teachings of his mother whispered in the back of his mind:

  "The battlefield bends to the one who moves with it, not against it."

  The Calydonian roared again —

  and Hiro didn’t flinch.

  He dropped the broken sword.

  He ran.

  Straight at the oncoming beast.

  The storm would meet the mountain.

  The Staff and the Storm

  The Calydonian bellowed and charged — faster this time, rage burning away hesitation.

  Hiro barely dodged, throwing himself sideways, feeling the blast of hot air and splintered stone as the tusks scraped past.

  He rolled once, fast and ugly, and came up half-crouched, eyes scanning—

  —There.

  The staff, half-buried under broken bodies and dust.

  He moved without thinking, sprinting low through the chaos.

  His hand closed around the worn wood in mid-run — a clean, desperate motion, like snatching lightning from the storm itself.

  It was warm. Alive.

  The weight of it sang through his bones — not heavy, not clumsy — right.

  Ahead, the Calydonian roared again, spinning to find him.

  Hiro spun the staff once behind his back, feeling it balance against his palm.

  A smile tugged at his mouth — crooked, dangerous.

  "Alright," he thought, steadying his stance.

  "Let's dance."

  The boar charged.

  Hiro waited until the last heartbeat, then shifted —

  not back, but sideways, flowing around the beast's blind rage.

  The staff snapped out like lightning, striking behind the boar's knee —

  a clean, sharp crack.

  The Calydonian stumbled, momentum skidding sideways.

  It bellowed, fury and confusion mixing into a brutal howl.

  Dust churned in the pit.

  The crowd roared louder — not in triumph, but in bloodlust.

  Damaric’s Stand

  Across the battlefield, the Erymanthian boar found its mark.

  It barreled toward a knot of surviving warriors —

  and as most fled or fell aside, Damaric stood firm.

  Shield up. Feet dug deep into the sand.

  No words. No roar. Only pure, cold defiance.

  The Erymanthian slammed into him —

  a full wall of muscle and rage —

  and the impact cracked the earth around Damaric’s boots.

  He staggered — but did not fall.

  Shield groaning, muscles screaming, Damaric held the line.

  Snarling low, he shifted his weight and shoved back —

  brutally, savagely —

  forcing the Erymanthian to stagger two steps away, snorting in fury.

  Above them, Homiros barked a sharp laugh, voice cracking over the chaos:

  "GOOD. SOME IRON IN THAT ONE!"

  The pit screamed louder — warriors and beasts alike sensing the shift.

  Back to Hiro

  Hiro ducked under another wild tusk-swipe —

  the staff moving faster now, dancing in his hands.

  "Not stronger," he thought, weaving between death.

  "Smarter."

  The Calydonian charged again, slower this time, its weight working against it.

  Hiro slammed the butt of the staff into the ground and vaulted —

  using the beast's momentum to spin over its back, landing lightly behind it.

  The pit gasped —

  even the bloodthirsty crowd couldn’t help but see it now:

  This wasn’t just a boy surviving in this massacre.

  This was a storm in the massacre.

  Above, Phinx shrieked —

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  a streak of fire and feathers diving from the heavens.

  He unleashed a focused blast — a lance of condensed flame —

  that seared into the Laestrygonian’s shoulder, forcing the giant to stagger back, roaring in pain.

  Not stopping, Phinx circled high again, wings blazing with firelight, launching quick bursts of fireballs that peppered the battlefield —

  a fiery storm harrying beasts and forcing chaos wherever he turned.

  The battlefield burned.

  Hiro pivoted with the staff in a tight, flowing arc — sidestepping another tusk strike with barely an inch to spare.

  He struck first — a sharp side swipe at the boar’s tusk, forcing it to turn right.

  Seizing the moment, Hiro spun the staff behind his back and over his head, drawing on the heat still swirling from Phinx’s assault.

  He slammed down an overhead strike across the boar’s snout — a heavy, brutal crack.

  The Calydonian reeled sideways, bellowing.

  Hiro backpedaled lightly, then lunged forward, staff flaring with fire and lightning.

  He unleashed a punishing flurry, hammering the beast’s ribs and flanks.

  Every strike drove the boar lower, slower — weakening it with precision and fury.

  He spun low and swung the tip of the staff upward, catching the creature’s jaw with a sharp crack.

  Blood and spittle sprayed from its mouth.

  The beast staggered, shaking its massive head — off-balance, wounded, for the first time.

  Hiro straightened slowly, the staff steady in his grip, breathing hard but steady.

  "Hehe, you felt that one, didn't you?"

  Breaking the Beast

  The Calydonian bellowed — a broken, furious sound.

  Spittle frothed from its jaws as it shook its massive head, tusks carving furious arcs through the air.

  It stamped once, twice — then charged.

  Hiro stood his ground.

  The earth trembled beneath him. The pit howled for blood.

  But Hiro...

  Hiro grinned.

  He waited, breathing slow.

  Waited until he could see the ripple of muscles under the beast’s hide — the moment before commitment.

  Then he moved —

  not back — in.

  The staff snapped up, slamming under the Calydonian’s snout, snapping its head skyward — blinding the charge.

  Before the beast could even snort in confusion, Hiro spun low —

  the staff carving a clean arc behind the beast's leading leg — targeting the joint, stealing its balance.

  The Calydonian stumbled, its momentum twisting against it.

  It slammed into the dirt with a roar, flailing.

  The pit exploded in dust and fury.

  Phinx’s Strike

  The ground quaked as the giant lumbered forward, each step a hammerblow against the battered arena floor. Dust hung in the air like ghosts of fallen warriors, swirling in the golden haze of noonlight.

  Above the roaring chaos of the crowd, one name cut sharper than all the rest:

  "Phinx! Phinx! Phinx!"

  He answered with a cry that split the sky—a sound more war-horn than birdcall, a declaration of fury born not from fear, but from glory.

  His body deepened to a hotter, fiercer red as he stretched out his wings, shuddering with untamed power.

  He was evolving before their eyes.

  The crowd let out a mighty roar, coaxing the fiery beast higher, louder, greater.

  The bird, once no larger than a vulture, now loomed the size of a man—wreathed in heat and hunger.

  The phoenix circled once, twice, his body a ribbon of molten red and gold against the ash-heavy air.

  With a sudden snap of his wings, he plunged, faster than thought, a comet hurled from Olympus itself.

  The giant swung an arm the size of a tree trunk, slow but devastating.

  Phinx tucked his wings, feather to flame to arrow, and skimmed beneath the blow—gliding along the giant’s forearm, searing a molten ribbon across the flesh in his wake.

  He rose in a sharp arc behind the giant’s back, talons blazing to life, the sheer force of his ascent forging flame from the wind itself.

  The crowd shrieked—no longer chanting, but screaming.

  Phinx spun once midair, gathering fire between his talons—a bead of searing, trembling light—and hurled it straight at the giant’s exposed eye.

  Solar Brand.

  The explosion cracked the world.

  No roar. No blast. Just a sound like glass fracturing across the heavens.

  The giant reeled back, howling, clutching at its face—smoke streaming from between its fingers.

  From the colosseum’s heart, Homiros’ voice rose like a thunderclap, booming across the stands:

  "AND THE SKY BELONGS TO PHINX!"

  "THE FIRE THAT SHATTERS GIANTS!"

  Phinx didn’t relent.

  This was his sky now, and the giant was crowding his space.

  He beat his wings once—twice—and launched himself forward again, flames coiling along his body, shaping into something greater, something primal.

  The weight of the crowd’s chants roared through him, a second heart pounding beside his own.

  Today, he wasn’t Hiro’s shadow—he was the fire that scorched giants.

  Damaric’s Charge

  Damaric roared, low and brutal.

  Shield raised, he slammed into the Erymanthian’s side, grinding against it with raw strength, boots tearing trenches through the bloodied stone.

  The crowd gasped as mortal muscle met myth.

  Above it all, Homiros’s voice cracked over the chaos:

  "THEIR BLOOD HEATS THE PIT! WHO WILL FALL FIRST?!"

  Hiro’s Finisher

  The Calydonian, wounded and furious, scrabbled to rise.

  Hiro didn’t hesitate.

  He slid the staff low, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust into the beast’s face —

  then vaulted, using the staff like a springboard.

  He flipped overhead — the air sharp and wild around him —

  and mid-spin, brought the staff crashing down onto the back of the Calydonian’s skull.

  A brutal crack echoed across the arena.

  The beast crumpled, skidding across the stone floor.

  Broken.

  Hiro landed lightly, spinning the staff once —

  dust spiraling around him like a coiled serpent.

  Lightning licked along his arms, his legs, crackling at the torn edges of his cloak.

  He straightened slowly, planting the staff into the ground.

  The storm inside him crackled brighter — hungry for more.

  Above, Homiros’s voice shattered the air:

  "THE STORM RISES!"

  The arena answered with a thunderous roar — a rising chant fed by blood, dust, and the will of the few who refused to fall.

  The Fall of the Titans

  The pit boiled with sound.

  Dust hung in the air, thick as smoke.

  Bodies littered the ground — some still, some crawling, some dragging themselves toward broken weapons and dying roars.

  Hiro stood over the fallen Calydonian, breathing slow, the staff steady in his grip.

  Lightning still flickered along his arms, soft and hungry.

  Through the swirling haze, he saw it all —

  the arena walls trembling from the crowd's roar,

  the few surviving warriors rallying around a lone anchor of strength: Damaric.

  Damaric fought like a man who didn’t believe in death.

  Shield raised, teeth bared, he slammed against the Erymanthian’s wild charges —

  and behind him, battered men and women, faces grim and bloodied, stood shoulder to shoulder, refusing to break.

  Further across the pit, Hiro caught a glimpse of fire carving through the dust —

  Phinx.

  Only — something was different now.

  The phoenix moved heavier, sharper —

  its body broader, flames burning hotter, trailing longer arcs of molten gold through the air.

  Phinx had grown again, and Hiro hadn’t even noticed.

  A slow smile pulled at Hiro's mouth.

  "I got some new tricks up my sleeve too," he muttered under his breath.

  He cupped his hands and shouted across the pit:

  "Damaric! Hold the line — don't kill it yet!"

  Damaric slammed his shield into the Erymanthian’s face with a grunt:

  "Make it quick!"

  The Laestrygonian loomed ahead — a scarred titan, bleeding but unbroken.

  One eye swollen shut, arms dripping with dirt and blood.

  It ripped slabs of stone from the arena floor, hurling them blind into the haze.

  A boulder the size of a man spun past Hiro’s head, trailing a storm of pebbles and dust.

  He ducked low, skating across the broken ground, feeling the grit bite at his skin.

  Above, Phinx wove through the chaos —

  a flare of gold and fire, snapping sharp bursts of flame to blind the Giant’s wild throws.

  As Hiro slid behind a cracked pillar, something caught his eye —

  the Erymanthian.

  It charged at Damaric again — reckless, violent, unstoppable.

  Every time it missed, it rammed full-speed into the walls, sending chunks of stone flying.

  A thought sparked, quick and ruthless:

  It's fast.

  It's heavy.

  And it’s too stupid to stop.

  If I time it right... one move could end them both.

  He gripped the staff tighter, feeling the plan tighten inside his ribs.

  One breath. One strike. One chance.

  Hiro planted the staff hard, pivoted, vaulted upward —

  a sharp crack behind the Giant’s knee.

  Descending, he gouged a burning line across the exposed Achilles tendon.

  The Giant howled, staggering —

  exposing its broad, battered chest.

  Phinx shrieked overhead — a torpedo of searing light streaking across the sky.

  A blast of molten fire hammered into the Giant's face, forcing it backward.

  The Giant roared, swinging blindly.

  Its massive fist gouged deep into the ground —

  stone cracking, sending a shockwave ripping outward.

  The earth trembled violently.

  Dust and broken shards blasted upward in violent bursts, scattering across the battlefield.

  Through the rising chaos, Hiro roared:

  "NOW, DAMARIC!"

  Damaric didn’t hesitate.

  He slammed his shield into the ground, pivoted hard, and dived aside.

  The Erymanthian, mid-charge, couldn’t stop.

  It barreled straight through the dust and slammed into the Laestrygonian’s exposed chest.

  The impact boomed like a gods' hammer —

  ribs collapsing inward, both beasts crashing backward in a storm of shattered stone and blood.

  The pit itself groaned, cracks spiderwebbing through the arena floor.

  In the swirling dust, a ball of fire and lightning darted through the smoke —

  growing bigger, faster, burning hotter with every heartbeat.

  Hiro didn’t waste a breath.

  He sprinted forward, Phinx diving low beside him —

  flame and lightning spiraling together,

  twisting upward through the broken air.

  Together —

  the storm and the flame —

  they rose into the sky for the kill.

  Crowning the Storm

  The world narrowed to a single breath.

  Above the broken pit, Hiro and Phinx tore through the smoke —

  a storm of fire and lightning hurtling toward the ruined earth.

  Below them, the battlefield lay shattered —

  stone split wide, smoke bleeding from the cracks,

  the wreckage of beasts and warriors strewn like fallen stars.

  Hiro’s body thrummed with raw power —

  each heartbeat another drum of the gathering storm.

  He gripped the staff tighter, feeling the surge race up his arms —

  brighter, hotter — until the wood itself began to unravel,

  shedding splinters of burning light.

  No fear. No hesitation. Only forward.

  The staff ignited —

  its shape burning away —

  until only a bolt of living lightning remained clenched in his hands.

  Above him, Phinx shrieked —

  a sound like a blade raking the sky.

  No words passed between them.

  None were needed.

  Phinx dove first.

  A comet of molten gold and roaring flame,

  he crashed through the dust —

  his whole body a lance of pure fury.

  He struck the Laestrygonian dead center —

  fire exploding outward as he drove the titan into the ground,

  finishing what he started.

  The Giant's final roar shattered into nothingness —

  devoured by fire.

  The pit cracked deeper, groaning under the ruin.

  Hiro moved next.

  He let the storm claim him.

  No thought.

  No mercy.

  Only the will to end it.

  He hurled himself forward —

  the storm lifting at his heels, the ground breaking behind him —

  not rising cleanly, but fighting upward,

  as if the earth itself tried and failed to hold him back.

  A streak of white-hot vengeance.

  The Erymanthian lifted its battered head —

  too slow, too broken.

  Hiro drove the bolt down —

  piercing straight into the boar’s heart.

  The world detonated.

  A shockwave ripped outward —

  splitting stone, tearing pillars from their roots,

  ripping through the arena like the scream of a dying god.

  Light drowned everything.

  Pure, endless, merciless.

  When the dust cleared,

  Hiro stood alone at the heart of the ruin.

  Lightning whispered across his skin.

  Dust coiled around him like a second cloak.

  In his hands —

  the last fragments of the staff, blackened and crumbling —

  fell away into the wind.

  He stared down at the fallen beast, empty-handed,

  but burning brighter than any blade.

  Behind him, Phinx landed —

  wings smoldering, flames licking his golden feathers.

  The battlefield lay frozen —

  as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.

  High above the silence,

  Homiros’s voice cracked through the air — ragged, thunderous, filled with awe:

  "AND JUST LIKE THAT — THE LAST BEAST FALLS!"

  Like a dam shattering,

  the pit erupted —

  a roar that shook the bones of the coliseum.

  They screamed not just for blood.

  Not just for survival.

  They screamed for the birth of the storm.